


Forbidden.

by ThreeHoundsOnYellowField



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet, Definitely Not Everyone's Cup of Tea, F/M, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Married Life, More angst, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeHoundsOnYellowField/pseuds/ThreeHoundsOnYellowField
Summary: When she was a child, Myrcella Baratheon admired, and later dreamt, of Robb Stark since they met in Winterfell. The Starks were like the normal family she never had. As years went by she found herself working in Robb's company, still deeply in love with the eldest of the Stark brood - which was not a wise move. She wanted him. Gods, she wanted him. Her love for him was a sin.-“I hate your wife,” she hissed, tears swelling dangerously in her eyes. “I hate the fact that you’re married.”-Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her. -John 8:7
Relationships: Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark, Roslin Frey/Robb Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	1. Proverbs 14:10

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER! please read:
> 
> \- I'm sorry; I wrote some earlier of the chapters (half) drunk. I have not seen my Therapist for months, thanks to COVID-19, and my health is deteriorating. Just a quickie with my laptop (and a bottle of wine);  
> \- Title was taken from Madonna's song 'Forbidden Love' from her 2005 album;  
> \- CONTAIN anger, SO MUCH ANGST, bitterness, heart-break (s), and regrets... proceed with caution;  
> \- CONTAIN adultery, please proceed with caution; don't haul curses at me. This is not everyone's cup of tea;  
> \- the author never has fix schedule when to post. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone! X  
> \-----  
> 

**_"The wisdom of the prudent is to give thought to their ways,_ ** **_but the folly of fools is deception."_ **

* * *

If only they met earlier.

Ten years, seven months, three weeks, one day, and three hours earlier.

_But we did._

_We did meet ten years, seven months, three weeks, one day, three hours, and ten minutes earlier._

-

She watched him sit on the carpeted floor, as he busied himself with the book in front of him. It was yet another Jeffery Deaver book, and she knew he always had a thing for thriller and mysteries. Why, he was a mystery himself for her, too, she pondered. A loud chattering noise was heard from the neighbour, the wind carried out the smell of wet soil from earlier downpour. She sat across him, criss crossing her legs, a faint smell from his aftershave hit her the moment she stayed at dangerous length from him.

“Who’s the culprit?” she asked him.

“Huh?” he looked up from the book, his eyes as blue as the summer's cloudless sky.

“That book you’re reading. Has it revealed the culprit yet?”

He grinned, “I just started this one, remember?”

_“‘The Skin Collector’,”_ she read the title, her nose wrinkled, “Uh, gross.”

“Brilliant, not gross,” he protested, ready to get back to his beloved book again.

She loved watching him doing his usual thing; be it devouring his salad (he is on a diet to cut some weight) and protesting afterwards that he wanted a cheeseburger (he could not), doing his work (and he’s _good_ at his work), reading his thick books, or just sit in her apartment staring out the windowsill. 

_You’re a fool,_ her friends used to say. _Don’t fall to his charm and his sad stories. You’ll end up hurting yourself._

_Am I?_ She asked herself now and then, still watching the way his brows furrowed as he flipped another page. 

It was a rare weekend which he came to pay a visit. Over time, his stuff began to appear in her apartemen, not that she was complaining. She started with buying t-shirts and boxers, just in case he wanted to spend the night unplanned. Then when she passed a bookstore she brought home some Jeffrey Deaver’s books she knew he likes, along with some Mary Higgins Clarks, and George R.R. Martin (he was a big fan of fantasy novels, too). She even gave him his own space for his books on her shelves. If she misses him, she looked at his part of the shelves and imagined he was reading on her sofa, just like today.

“You’re staring,” he commented softly, still looking down at the book in his hands.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Do you like what you see?”

He was always… joking. 

Teasing. 

Flirting…?

She wished she knew better.

“Yes.”

He looked up, “Me too.”

_Do you love me?_ She wanted to ask him that, for the hundredth time. And for the hundredth and one time, the question went dead at the tip of her tongue. _What am I to you?_

She averted her eyes, stood up, and walked towards the opened window sill. It’d grow colder by night, the smell of after rain only made her mood saddens. 

“Are you going to sleep here?” _Please say yes._

“I don’t know,” he replied from behind her, “Perhaps I’d go back in a minute or two.”

“Okay.” She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Yet she put on her brave face when she turned around at him, smiling her best smile. “Are you okay now?”

“Think so,” he smiled. “An hour or two at your place always makes me better.”

“Robb,” she called, hesitating for a second because it’d always feel weird to call his given name. He is her boss, even when they’ve known each other since they were kids. They’d always been professional in office, and she even called him _‘Sir’_ outside work.

“Yeah?”

“Say hi to little Ned from me.”

“Of course.” he closed the book and tucked it inside his duffel bag, looking at the watch. “I should be going.”

“Okay.” 

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

He got up, walking towards the door where he put on his shoes. She opened the door to him, smiling broadly. His scent filled her nostrils as he walked past her, saying something of seeing her at work tomorrow, and that she’ll be busy with some emails he’d need her to answer. She grinned at saying something like, “I’m looking forward to it, Sir,” before he went out to the hallway and disappeared into the elevator.

\--

He kept her busy at work as promised; answering emails he forwarded from his colleagues, asking for her input and advice, and there’d also meetings she needed to attend, and the never ending piles of contract drafts she needed to review. As the in-house legal counsel of his company, he relied a lot on her, and she likes the feeling of being needed.

Sometimes they’d passed in the hallway, but he was always busier than her. Being the youngest C.E.O of a multinational company, it was expected of him. He loved his work, his duty, and she loved him for that. She cherished any moment she needed to speak to him at work, be it through email or if she has to come to his office.

The door was always open, and three dozens of colleagues sat in front of his office, but they were professionals. Not a soul knew he’d spend a night at her place whenever he has fights with his wife, nor the things he told her over drinks. She kept her silence, and her distance, maintaining professionalism even though she was afraid that on one or two occasions someone might catch the way she stares at him.

_Never fall for your married boss,_ her friends told her. _It only left you in ruins._

_But she did; she did fall for her married boss, and God helped her, she fell deep._

“Excuse me, Mr. Stark, I’ve review this contract and all seem good—,” 

He raised a finger, telling her to stop talking, as he had a phone between his ear and his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he spoke to the phone, “Sure, sure, just do what you think was right. I’ve to go.” He then threw the phone and sighed, looking at her, “Yes, Miss Baratheon? You were saying…?”

She took a step into his office, “I read the contract, and all seem good. Greyjoy Shipment agreed to all our terms,”

“That was good news,” he clapped his hands, “Prepare a meeting so that the agreement can be signed.”

“Already did, Sir.”

“Great, great,” he loosen his tie.

“Do you need anything?”

“What?”

“Do you need anything? Coffee, perhaps?” 

“No, thank you. You’re not my secretary.”

“I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Myrcella?”

She turned to him again. “Yes?”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he shook his head and she proceeded to her office. It was a long walk even when their offices were separated no more than twenty feet away on the spacious office floor. 

_When did I start to fall in love with you?_

\---

It started with a smile, how she wished she could say so. 

When they were children, she admitted his smile was the friendliest, kindest, brightest smile she ever received. Growing up in a cold household where her parents constantly fight and emotionally distant, his friendship was always a welcome thing. Her father, Robert, used to take her to his best friend’s house to spend holidays and hunting season with the Starks. 

Robb was the oldest of five, six years her senior. She remembered she used to steal glances at the oldest of the Stark brood, admiring his already toned body, his sharp wit and his infectious laughter. She asked questions about him to Sansa (who happily supplied her with information) and to Arya (who just snorted and said Robb had his head in the clouds), but none of it satisfied her longing to be near to him. She was just a little girl, and he was already at the brink of manhood.

She remembered he was always surrounded with girls. The way he boasted his conquests to his brothers made her jealous. There was a time in her life where she could not wait for her breasts to grow, or to be taller like the girls around him, so that Robb would notice her. He never did though, or at least he never looked at her the way she wanted him to be.

To Robb, she’d always be his father’s best friend's daughter, his sister’s best friend, and now in their adulthood, his subordinate. And he’d always been untouchable for her; the one she could only daydreamed of, never to be a part of his life.

She looked at her reflection on the mirror; sad and tired, with dark circles below her eyes that she tried to smudge with concealers. She put on her lipstick, a brown coral in tone that once she overheard him said he liked the color. It made her look even more tired, but she did not care. 

It was a party he threw for a closed agreement with the Greyjoys. The music was loud, booze flowing from the open bar, and everywhere she looked she saw smiling faces. She did not find the one she was looking for. Everyone came to her to congratulate the contract, patting her shoulders, smiling. She smiled in return, but wanted to curl up on her bed watching Netflix, if not for Robb. He insisted on throwing a small party, just them and the Greyjoys, to celebrate the collaboration between two largest companies in the North.

“Do you see Mr. Stark?” she asked her colleagues, who all shook their heads.

Theon Greyjoy, the heir of the Greyjoy Shipment, asked her to dance twice, which she turned down, making the man seem to regret his choice to sign the contract. He had a way to women, she had heard rumors that he had slept with half of his employees. How the young heir escaped sexual harassment, she did not know. Certainly Theon’s father’s influence took a big part to save his ass.

“No dance to celebrate?” Theon’s voice followed her, refusing to back down easily. “Or perhaps another kind of dance?”

_Whatever,_ she thought, as she managed to split the sea of people and headed into the emergency stairs. _Theon and his fondness of blondes._ If she felt cute enough she took a mental note to dye her hair brunette.

_Robb loves brunettes,_ that came to her unbidden. 

The wine got to her head, and she stumbled on her steps. The stairs seemed to never end. She kept on ascending, one step at a time, gripping the railings so hard her palm started to hurt. 

He was at the end of the stairs, talking to someone.

“...stop it, just stop it,” she heard him saying angrily, “He’s not a bargain chip! You should have known better!”

“I did!” another voice, a woman’s, was heard. “You’re rarely home! I knew we had issues, and I couldn’t help thinking… are you seeing someone else?”

“No, I am not,” he hissed.

_He told you the truth,_ she thought bitterly. He only came to her for a place to crash, to clear his mind. They’d sit and talk about work, about their life in the North, about his books… 

“Robb—,”

“Go home, Roslin.”

“You never smile again.”

“What do you think made me so?”

Silence.

A door was opened and slam shut, and another silence. She heard him sighed. It took her another set of steps to reach him, and he was startled to find her in the emergency stairs. She thought he wanted to say something—anything—but she moved before any courage left her.

The kiss came out of nowhere; she knew she must’ve surprised him, drunk as she was, as she threw herself at him. His lips met hers in a weird way. First he pulled back, muttered something she barely heard of, before his lips descended to find hers again.

She almost cried when he pulled her close to his chest, his mouth tasted of wine (or was it hers?) and something sweet. She had wondered how it felt to kiss him since she was a mere girl.

The alcohol in her system made her forget that she was kissing a married man, her boss, her childhood friend. It made her forget how wanton she must be, to throw herself at him, right after eavesdropped his argument with his wife… Goosebumps lined her skin as she opened her mouth to give him access. 

_Just this time,_ she thought, _just this one time…_

He was not as drunk as her, or perhaps he did not love her as she does. The next thing was she felt him pulling apart, leaving her breathless and wanting more.

“Myrcella,” she heard him say, “What are you doing?”

_Kissing you, like I’ve always wanted to do years ago._ “Huh?” was all she could muster.

His awkward laugh echoed in the dim emergency stairs. “What are you doing here, drunk?”

_I am not drunk…_

“Let’s go,” he said, and she felt him ushering her from the stairs. 

His office was quiet and dark when he took her in and sat her on the sofa. The voices of his colleagues partying downstairs were faintly heard. 

“You never fare better with alcohol,” he commented, shoving a glass of water to her hand. “I should’ve found you before you downed a bottle of booze.”

“No, you’re busy fighting with your wife.” She couldn’t look at his face when she blurted it out, but by the sharp intake of his breath he realized she had heard them arguing. “I should’ve been busy myself with Theon Greyjoy.”

“What—,” he started, but she couldn’t see his expression in the dark. 

“I should’ve fuck him, that Theon Greyjoy,” she continued, her head pounded hard. All the while every memory of Robb Stark made her skin crawl. She wanted him, and he was too honorable to even touch her. He never touched her the way she wanted him to. “It’s been a long time since I was properly fucked.”

“What did you say—.” his voice raised, but she couldn't care less.

She leaned on the plush sofa, her head felt heavy as the alcohol she had been drinking all night began to affect her mind. “I hate your wife,” she hissed, tears swelling dangerously in her eyes. Thank Goodness it was dark in his office. “I hate the fact that you’re married.”

“You’re drunk. You’ve never been drunk,” he said, kneeling before her.

“Why have you never looked at me?”

“Myrcella—,”

“Why did you marry Roslin? Are you happy? You don’t seem happy.”

He was silent, and her head pounds faster. She was sobbing now. 

“You’re drunk, and we will forget about this tomorrow.”

_Why can’t you love me?_ “I’m not drunk.”

He pressed the glass of water to her hand, urging her to take a sip. “Yes, you’re.”

“Theon Greyjoy wanted to fuck me,” she murmured angrily. “I should’ve fuck him downstairs.”

“I won’t let him near you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish.”

In the dark, he sat next to her on the sofa and she curled up to the crook of his arm. He held her for how long she did not know, but it was the longest and the closest she’d ever get to him. His perfume filled her nostril, sending a longing she could not really shake off. He had been using the same perfume for years now, yet she never asked him what kind he used. Perhaps she should.

“Why were you fighting?” she murmured, the need for him gnawing at her soul.

He was silent, as if he was weighing whether to tell her or not. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper in the dark, “She wanted… more.”

“More?”

“I don’t know. More kids. More time. More… just more…” he trailed away. 

“Your wife is a bitch,”

“No…” he murmured, sighing, and he slunk away. “Do you want to go back to the party? You’re the spearhead that scored the project with the Grejoys.”

She wanted to sleep, laying down on his sofa.

“Myrcella?”

He lightly touched her shoulder, nothing sexual and did not feel like he had the same feelings as her, just a light brotherly pat. She knew he used to extend the gesture to Sansa and Arya, sometimes even to Jeyne Poole, their friend from school, and that was it. 

“Fine, you sleep here. I’ll call Tommen to take you home.”

She pretended that she did not hear him. He kept the lights out, only turning on a lamp on the table by the door. A moment before he took off, he stopped and returned to the sofa.

“Don’t catch the cold,” he murmured, covering her with his suit jacket.


	2. Proverbs 5:5-6

**_"Her feet go down to death,_ ** **_her steps lead straight to the grave._ **

**_She gives no thought to the way of life;_ ** **_her paths are crooked, but she knows it not."_ **

* * *

She did not want to work for him. If not for the death of her father, and the amounting debt her mother made to keep her lavish lifestyle, Myrcella prefered to stay in the uni, thank you very much. She was just a semester behind graduation with the unfortunate event hits. Tommen was just entering senior high, and the least thing she could do was to prevent her little brother from dropping out. 

Joffrey was still in prison, so it fell on her shoulders to take care of their family. They moved out from their three-story home, leaving the gym, the country club house, and sold their summer houses. The money was enough to cover half of the debt but they still needed income to go on. She had come to him for a job, and he helped her. 

At that time he just started his own company. It was four years ago. He also had just become a father, proudly showing photos of a fat, smiling baby with blue eyes. Eddard Walder Stark, or little Ned, named after his grand-fathers. 

_“The money might not be as much,”_ he had said during their final interview. He was always kind and gracious, even when he knew she had not earned her degree yet. _“But we’re expanding, I hope. And I can support you in your studies, so you don’t have to drop out. Take a night class, perhaps, if you’d like.”_

She did, and she graduated just a year behind her classmates. True to his word, they were expanding. Business has been good; they moved into a better, bigger building. Her mother’s debt finally paid off and with her money she began saving little by little. Robb helped to loan her the down payment for her apartment, which made her embarrassed but thankful for the kind gesture.

The hangover hit her like a truck, no matter she gulped down bottles of kale smoothies. All she wanted to do was to lie down all day, which Tommen also advised, but she urged herself to take a bath and brush her teeth. She never skipped work, not a day, and she won’t start to skip it today.

Robb Stark was already in his office when she arrived. His room was made transparent, the curtain occasionally lowered if he wants a little privacy. He wore a two button brown suit, with a white shirt underneath, and matching trousers. The hairstyle has changed in recent years, which now he kept short, the auburn curls combed to the back. She did not want to talk to him so she strode passed his office, right into hers, and slumping down on her chair. 

“Hey,” The call startled her. “Did I surprise you?”

“You did,” she replied meekly, the sunglasses sagged from her nose.

“Are you going to wear those?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind,” she cleared her throat and added, “I’ve panda eyes.”

He laughed. “Fine then.”

He was too good to bring up the topic from the previous night, so none of them mentioned what happened. No drunk kiss, no trash talking of his wife, and definitely not a mention about how she nearly fucked Theon Greyjoy. 

Or how she confessed she had not laid in a long time.

They talked about work for a minute, then he asked how she was doing, eyeing the kale smoothies on the table. “How many bottles you devoured last night?” he asked, watching her messaging her temples.

“Can’t remember,”

“Does that work for your hangover?”

“No.”

“Roslin made the best cure for hangovers. I’ll just text her for the recipe.”

“Thank you, but I’ll manage just fine.”

“You can’t work with that condition.”

“I can try.”

“I’m texting her right now.”

 _Good lord, no._ “Thank you.”

“Tell me if you want to come home sooner, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“No worries.”

He left, and she groaned, snatching the kale smoothies. 

She wasted good years loving a shadow. She had read somewhere that _if_ only she met him before he was married, perhaps they could be together. But they _did_ meet before he married Roslin. Nothing ever happened between them, or at least the way she wanted things to go. She wondered whether she was not attractive enough for him. Was it her teeth? Was it the way she styled her hair? Was it because she was always doing everything extra for him?

He went out of town to get his bachelor’s degree, and when he returned she heard the news that he was getting married. Of course over time her fondness of him grew out; she met other boys, loved one or two, slept with them… but then her late father took her and Tommen to spend the holidays with the Starks, and there he was, looking all regal and she’d fall head over heels all over again. She should have said no when he offered her the job. It was a mistake. He was like a bad drug for her… And his mistake was to treat her with kindness and respect. 

Robb has always been the big brother she longed for, the one who dared to stand up to Joffrey’s bullying. He was her go-to-man, her emergency date when she was being stood up by her date at junior high prom (the reason was, if she remembered correctly, because she had a major breakout a week before prom). He picked her up from school when she could not reach her father’s cell. He took his sisters and her for an ice cream treat whenever he got paid from his part-time jobs.

_“Why did you marry Roslin?”_

_“I thought it was love.”_

_“Was it not?”_

_“It was more complicated that you know.”_

Their marriage soured up not long after little Ned was born. He slept in their guest bedroom and whenever they got into a fight, he’d come to her place as he did not want his son to see the fight. He’d read, make himself a cup of tea, or just simply sit and stare out the window. Then he’d go back to his wife. Every. Single. Time.

_“I just cannot leave Roslin.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Roslin will take him away. He’d grow up estranged from me.”_

\--

He was a family man, she was sure of it. Raised in a happy home, surrounded by a big warm family, he strived to give the same childhood for his son. Little Ned was lucky. She had seen the way Robb’s face lit up at the mention of his child, and of how he bragged every milestone little Ned made.

 _‘Papa!’_ the little boy’s voice echoed from Robb’s cell phone. Another glee squeals as he falls on his bottom, and Robb’s concerned voices from the video.

Sometimes Robb sent her the videos, and she was happy to be called Auntie Ella. Her name would be a mouthful for the kid, but with therapy she’s sure Ned would outcome his mental and physical challenges. 

At three and a half years old, he just started to say his name; _‘Ed’_ he said, blue eyes widened in amazement as the little boy pointed tiny fingers to his chest, _‘Ed!’_ he said again, and she laughed when Robb showed her the video. Someone has let the boy’s hair (auburn, like his father and his grandmother) grow to his shoulder. He was learning how to walk now, wobbly steps before falling on his padded bottom. “Oh, he doesn’t easily give up!” Robb said, beaming with pride. 

He kept a photo of his son inside his wallet; a tiny toddler with flat facial profile and slant blue eyes. The boy was smiling at the camera, obviously the photographer made an effort to make the boy laugh. He was a good-looking boy, it clearly showed through the low muscle tone, which was a characteristic of children with down syndrome. The kid has an infectious wide grin, just like his father, and Myrcella cried the moment she met little Ned for the first time. Though still a toddler, he has shown confidence even to strangers. When Myrcella held the boy, he looked up at her and smiled, taking her fingers into his tiny ones.  
“Isn’t he amazing?” Robb said, rewinding the video for the fourth time, still smiling. “Roslin and I were sure before the end of the month he’d master walking on his own.”

“He sure is! Soon he'll be chasing girls around the neighbourhood!”

Robb gave out a hearty laugh. He still supported the out of worldly grin as he watched the video Roslin sent, before tucking the cellphone to inside his suit. They were standing in the aisle of a shopping mall, waiting for their purchased gifts to be wrapped. His father’s birthday was around the corner, and the Starks has been gracious to extend an invite for her and Tommen. Cersei would prefer to stay in Casterly Rock, though, as she deemed the North was too cold and barren. Myrcella was clearly more pleased if her mother did not come with them to the North. 

They were looking for gifts earlier than usual, even when Robb protested that she would show up with too many gifts. She believed it was frowned upon if she showed up empty handed, so she after choosing a bottle of Mr Eddard Stark’s favorite gin, she bought a book for Brandon, and a new RPG game for Rickon’s playstation console. Robb’s younger brothers who were in junior and senior high respectively, and both were just like her younger brothers too. She had texted Sansa, and promises were made to catch up while she was in town. Arya would bring Gendry, and Robb has been rolling his eyes to finally meet his little sister’s man.

“Don’t forget to remind me about your mum’s cake, okay?” she told Robb as the line in front of them began to thin out. “I need to pick up the lemon cakes before we ride North.”

“Yeah, sure, Sansa and mum would be happy. You shouldn’t be troubled, though.” He looked at his wrist watch, tapping at the glass. “Do you think I should get anything for Roslin?” he asked nonchalantly.

“If you’d like to.” 

“Any idea?”

“Well, what does she like? A jewelry, perhaps? Or a perfume?” It was not the first, nor the last, time he asked her opinion about gifts for his women. When they were young, Sansa and her were thrilled to go shopping for him. Afterwards they’d asked whether his girls liked the gifts they had chosen, but now standing beside him, she could no longer feel the thrill. It was only dread.

“There’s a jewelry store over there. We should take a look before we head back to the office.” he suggested, which she nodded silently.

Her gifts were finally wrapped wonderfully. She found herself looking at the jewelry displayed in the shop Robb referred to, it was a posh store, the one her mother used to shop when they were still rich. The dustless shop offered a wide range of jewels; silver and gold, diamonds and titanium. A woman behind the display table greeted them. 

“I’d like to see some jewelry for my wife,” Robb said, “A bracelet, perhaps. Or a necklace.”

“What is the occasion, if I may ask?”

“An appreciation token,” she heard him replied, as she pretended to observe some of the display. She walked a bit further away when the sales-person asked what his wife was like, and what he thought she liked. Myrcella did not want to hear it.

Twenty minutes later, he called her. There were two necklaces on the table. One was made of yellow gold, the other of diamonds. She chose the yellow gold for Roslin, a necklace with an open heart pendant, adorned with three little diamonds. _Their little family,_ she thought bitterly. Robb nodded, asked the jewelry to be wrapped as he made the purchase.

\---

There was an old, wise saying that says _‘We crave what we can’t have’._ How true was that, Myrcella pondered, glancing at the man sitting before her from the piles of books and take-out boxes on the table. They were working late. The floor has been emptied and vacuumed, lights were mostly out, safe the one inside his office where they were working.

They almost finished the work, him proofreading one last time before they decided to call it a night. Though it was Friday night, he did not seem to be in a hurry to get home.

“Ned must have slept at this hour,” he chuckled when she asked him if he wanted to go home. It was already nearing midnight. “One more file and we’re done, good lord!”

The way he was in deep thought never changed since they were young. His brows furrowed, sometimes he grinds on his jaw. The only sound in the silent office was of him mumbling something from the paper in his hand, and the sound of clock tick tock-ing. She must have been staring at him all the while zoning out, because a moment later his voice broke the silence.

“What are you thinking?”

“If you knew, you’d be ejaculating.”

The files slipped from his hands and scattered on the floor. He fumbled as he crouched down to pick up the papers, ears red as his auburn curls. “Myrcella!” he chastised her. “Your mother would be disappointed to hear you said that!”

“She disappointed in me already,” she replied, grinning. “She wants me to settle down and marry Trystane. Do you remember Trystane?”

“Martell?” he asked back, looking a bit taken aback.

“Yeah, I turned down his proposal.”

“He proposed?” Robb was looking even more bewildered now. “When?”

“Two years ago. That was the reason I moved out and got my own place.”

“Why didn't you tell me that he proposed? Did Sansa know?”

“I told her not to tell you,” she smiled apologetically to see him irritated. “What? Are you disappointed too, that I turned him down? Should I marry him instead? I hear he’s still single…” she laughed to see his reddened face. 

“Okay, back to work now!” he let out an awkward breath. 

“But don’t you wonder what I thought earlier?”

“That’s enough, Myrcella,” he tried to suppress a smile, and failed, to her amusement. “Do I really want to know, though? Perhaps, or better, not,”

“I thought about how it felt to be that paper in your hands,” she told him before any courage left her. 

He did not say a word, staring blankly at the papers in his hand.

“I thought, for years, how does it feel to be kissed… by you,”

“Myrcella,” he finally spoke up, looking at her.

“I thought of taking off my clothes in front of you...”

_“Myrcella—,”_

She stood up from her chair, kicking her shoes and bent down to slip her hands inside the skirt she was wearing. “Starting from this,” she slipped down the panties and his breath hitched a little.

“Put that on,” he whispered, yet unable to look away. 

The black thong fell around her ankles, the cold air hit her core. “I was thinking what would you say, or do to me, if next I unbuttoned my shirt... like this…” the first button went, followed by the second, and the rest.

“Is this a mean joke?” his voice came out hoarse.

“I told you, you’d ejaculate if you know what I was thinking.”

A soft _buzz_ was heard from behind her back, when the curtain was lowered automatically. They were alone in the dark, in a certainly empty building, but he still has the urgency to shut the windows. What she did was morally wrong. A shameful thing to do.

 _Don’t hurt yourself,_ a voice inside her head whispered.

 _You’ve wanted this for years,_ another voice in her heart countered. _Just once. Just this one time._

He sat rigid on his chair, mouth dropped open as she circled the table between them in slow, _slow,_ steps. Robb’s blue eyes looked at her sadly, like a lost puppy. It pulled her like a magnet, she was a moth attracted to light, and the light was him.

“Don’t come any closer,” he swallowed. 

“What will you do?” she asked, curiosity defeated any shyness.

“I might really kiss you,” he whispered, full of warning.

“Don’t hesitate, then,”

She was standing before him, just as the blouse fell to the floor. He stood up abruptly, surprising her, and she had to look up to see his face. Her heart beats so fast, anticipating what he’d do. If she stood on her toes, she could reach up to his lips...

What he did next was unexpected; Robb bent down to pick up the blouse. With a gentle motion he put the clothes on her shoulders, and she could not do much other than following the man’s movement. He buttoned her blouse one by one, gently, though with shaking hands, like a father to his daughter. Like a big brother would do.

He leaned in to her, she thought he was going to kiss her anyway, before she sensed him inhaling her breath.

“I’m sober,” she whispered, “You knew that. I sat in front of you for four hours, and only drink water,”

“Of course.” he looked decently embarrassed. Reluctantly, he tore off from her to pick up her thong. His hands were warm as he touched her, lifting her legs one by one to slide that little piece of cloth back to its place. 

He paused for a moment between her legs, still kneeling, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her thigh.

“You asked me why I married Roslin?” 

“Yes.”

“I was going to leave her,” he admitted. His hand rubbed her thigh, sending her to take a sharp breath at the touch. “She said she was pregnant with my child. When the tests came out indicating that…” his voice broke, “...that my child has down syndrome, I know I cannot leave them,”

Tears were swelling in her eyes now, “Robb—,”

He pulled her closer, buried between her thighs. She reached out to put her hands on his shoulders as she felt him slumped down, voice breaking into a sob. 

“I cannot leave Roslin. I cannot lose Ned,”

_This is a sad story for another affair._

_This shall not have a happy ending, because, why does it should?_

_Ten years, seven months, four weeks, two days, seven hours, and five minutes earlier._

_It did not make any difference._

_Did it?_


	3. Psalm 51:1

**_"Have mercy on me, O God,_ ** **_according to your unfailing love;_ ** **_according to your great compassion_ ** _**blot out my transgression."** _

* * *

Another bottle of wine, and she’d ended up like her parents; drunk and miserable. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. The empty bottle rolled on the bed, the dripping soaked on the sheet like a splash of blood. 

The night felt heavy, or was it the alcohol in her system betraying her better judgement? 

His name was the one she cried out loud in the night, fingers buried deep between her folds, rubbing, trying in vain to find some solace. She had dreamt of him since she was a little girl, and yet he was always out of her reach. Orgasm rushed over her body, sending a heat of oxytocin and endorphins she needed to relieve the pain. All those self-help books were saying that if she fought strong enough, the feelings shall pass. It did not. Either she was not strong, or she did not want to let go. 

For the first time, she skipped work that day, letting a colleague know that she was not feeling well. Robb has been trying to reach her, but she never picked up the call. She downed a bottle of wine by herself, disregarding the fact that it should have been her eighty-fifth day of being sober. She was half drunk last week too, so it didn’t matter. Half-drunk was not entirely drunk… was it?

Her head would be pounding tomorrow, but it’d also make her want to sleep during the commute, which she’ll very much need. She had left a message telling Robb that she and Tommen would take the train instead of riding with him and Roslin. How could she sit there inside his car, in close proximity with the women she loathe and envied? No. Definitely no, not after she humiliated herself in front of him. 

Tommen came to her place in the evening, she was still in bed in her pajamas, not bothering to shower. Her little brother raised both a wonder and concerned look as soon as he saw her. 

“Hard day at work,” she told him, who nodded, trying to understand. 

“Have you packed for the weekend at the Starks?” he asked, dropping his own backpack to the floor.

She shook her head, and Tommen, bless his heart, silently stalked towards her closet. He took out a fleece jacket, some t-shirts and a thermal blouse, and a pair of gloves. Having to sleep over her place, he knew where she kept her things. 

“Do you still wanna go?” her brother asked as she could only watch him packing her clothes into a black duffel bag. “If yes, you’ll need to pack your own underwear. I’m not doing it,” 

“I humiliated myself in front of Robb,” she confessed.

Tommen stopped packing her clothes and joined her on the bed. “Yeah? Not the first time, I think.”

Myrcella smacked his arm with a pillow, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grinned, “You take care of me, and he takes care of you, doesn’t he?”

“It’s different.”

“What is it now?”

“You’re too young to understand.”

He rolled his eyes, the same green hues as hers, “Geez, sis, you keep on saying that since I was five. Now you’re going tomorrow or not? If you’re not going, I’ll be mad because you make me unable to ride in Robb’s car,” 

She groaned, dragging herself from the bed, from her wine bottle, to a drawer where she kept her underwear. Tommen grinned, blissfully unaware of her inner struggle.

-

The North was more like a country-side with snow mountains, moors, and dense woodlands where green vegetation spread as wide as the horizon. Though it was still autumn, in the distance she could see the fog starting to descend from the snowy mountains. She could feel the cold even under three layers of clothes. When she was little, she loved lying on the Stark’s porch, staring at the night sky. Clean air allowed her to see stars scattered in the sky. She suddenly wanted to lie on the wooden floor again and find out if the Northern night sky was still as bright as before.

The train that took them from the city arrived at the station, and they carried their bags out. The sun was shining brilliantly, but the air was a familiar cold. The last time she was disembarking from the same train was the year she visited the Starks on Robb’s wedding day. 

“Tom!” a familiar call, and she saw Tommen already running towards two teenage boys waiting at the arrival gate. “Hey, Cella!” Bran and Rickon have grown so much in the past year, both of them now taller than her. They shared a group hug, bumping their bags to the Starks brothers’ knees, scrambling to talk at the same time. Tommen has always been close with Rickon, for the love of video games. They were close in age too, just a few months apart from each other. 

“I got my driving license last week!” Bran announced happily, and Myrcella knew he had failed at least fourth times.

“Uh, I thought your Dad was going to pick us up?” she asked carefully.

“He is,” another voice heard, and Myrcella and Tommen both squealed to see the Stark patriarch grinning wide from the side of the platform. Eddard Stark’s bear hugs reminded her of Robert’s, and it sent a melancholy feeling within her. “Hello, both of you!” he patted Tommen’s shoulder warmly, and placed a kiss on her cheek before turning to his sons. “Your mother is waiting, and it’s getting colder. Both of you help Tommen and Myrcella with their bags and off we go!”

It was another one hour drive from the train station to Winterfell, the Stark’s residence. The huge house was built by Mr. Stark’s great grandfather who came to settle in the North, it was so huge that it could nearly be called a manor instead of a family home. The white and grey stone appeared in the distance, its brownish roof looming under the orange sky. She remembered how it could be cruelly cold before dusk, so she had prepared a jacket in her carry-on. 

Cool breeze welcomed her as she set foot at the place she spent her childhood in, the smell of pines faintly lingered in the air. There’s woods not far from their estate, with rows of dense pine and sagebrush. Northerners experienced shorter sunlight and it was nearly dark even when dusk was still at bay. 

The house was full with the Starks’ brood; Tommen vanished into Rickon’s bedroom to play the new game she bought, Brandon buried himself in one of the sofas in the living room, flipping through his new book. Sansa found her in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Stark takes out lemon cakes from its boxes. The oldest of the Stark girls was as pretty as she remembered. They were of the same age, and now she was a successful fashion designer in King’s Landing. Arya joined them in the kitchen, flushed and bright eyed, the only Stark children that inherited her father’s dark hair. 

The one she wanted to see was not there.

“Robb is in his room,” Sansa said when Myrcella finally asked. “Little Ned does not fare well in the cold, poor little thing,”

“I’ll check on them,” Mrs. Stark said, looking concerned. She brought hot teas and a hot water bottle with her.

He and Roslin did not come out for dinner, as Mrs. Stark announced that little Ned’s respiratory complications needed the boy to be put on nebulizers. After dinner, Tommen and Rickon helped bring more wood to keep the fireplace in Robb’s room ablazed through the night. The Stark sisters brought dinner to their room, while Myrcella sat in the living room. Fire crackled in the big hearth, sending the needed warmth. 

“We’re going to put pillows and blankets on the floor, just like when we were children,” Sansa joined her in the living room, two bowls of marshmallows in her hands. Arya followed behind her sister, as did Rickon, both of them carrying beer cans. Tommen put down pillows on the floor, helped by Bran who’s spreading blankets in front of the hearth. They lay on the floor, huddled together for warmth and comfort, just like they were kids all over again. 

They talked about work, the boys about their college. It felt good to finally able to catch up in person, rather than through e-mails or phone calls. In the middle of it Gendry showed up to kiss Arya goodnight. Sansa wanted him to join them but Arya cruelly asked Gendry to just sleep in her bedroom. 

“I love you, but sorry, this sleepover is for us only,” 

Mr. and Mrs. Stark came once to check in on them before they went to bed, smiling to see six adults laughing on the floor. Lights were out by midnight. Full with dinner, marshmallows, and beers, Myrcella saw one by one started to fall asleep. She, too, snuggled deep in her blanket and was ready to close her eyes when a muffled footsteps came into the room. 

Robb sat next to her, it was easy since she was lying on the edge just next to one of the sofas. He slid down, taking a deep breath. Her first instinct was to share her blanket with him.

“How’s Ned doing?” she asked, keeping her voice low as not to awake the other five.

“He can finally sleep,” he whispered back. “How’s the camping goin’?”

“We roasted marshmallows in the fireplace,”

“Is there one left for me?”

“Bran ate the last ones,”

He smiled. 

“I’m sorry about the previous day.”

He turned to look at her, just to look, without saying a word. His stare made her want to snuggle close.

“Forgiven,” he said, at last. “With condition,”

“What is it?” she narrowed her eyes to him, suspicious.

“You and Tommen ride home with me. Don’t take the train.”

 _Ugh, no._ “Fine, but you sleep with us here. Like when we’re kids.”

His smile faded away. “Can’t. Roslin will look for me.” He touched her face, his palm was hot on her cold cheek. “Goodnight, Myrcella."

The man she loves got up and walked out of the living room, back to his chamber, to his son, and to his wife.


	4. Galatians 5:19

**_"The acts of the sinful nature are obvious:_ ** **_sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery."_ **

* * *

Myrcella woke up as the morning sunlight fell upon her face. There was still silence in the house. So quiet, that the only sound heard was the sound of something pouring from the kitchen. She stalked out from the blanket, the embers dying out in the hearth. 

Gendry was standing in Mrs. Stark’s clean kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The man grinned shyly at her, staring at her golden hair. “Good morning. Myrcella, isn’t it?”

“Hi, yes, I’ve heard a lot about you from Sansa. You woke up early.”

His cheeks the color of pink, from the cold or the shyness, she did not know. “I used to wake up at seven, sharp. Coffee?”

“Please, thank you.”

“So how was the sleepover doing?” he asked, opening the cupboard next to him to take another mug. Arya and him had arrived a day earlier, and it seemed in a day he had memorized where the Starks keep their utensils. 

“Perfect,” she answered, smiling, rumming through the fridge looking for milk. She poured just enough for her coffee. “That was just our habit, when we had the chance. Putting pillows and blankets in front of the fireplace,” she blew the hot coffee as she sat across Gendry in the kitchen. “Sometimes Mrs. Stark prepares marshmallows and we liked to pretend we’re camping somewhere when we roast the marshmallows in the fireplace.”

“I thought the boys and Arya liked camping?”

“Oh they did,” Myrcella grinned, “Sansa and I don’t, so they’re gracious enough to give us the experience of roasting marshmallow in the fireplace,”

He laughed. The stocky built man standing across her in the room was pleasing to her eyes; blue eyed, with bushy raven black hair. She never thought Arya finally settled on someone, a guy she had met while travelling across the continent. The youngest of the Stark girls was always nursing her adventurous side, refusing to bend to her parents’ wishes as she left the North to pursue a career in wildlife rehabilitation programs.

“How did you meet Arya again?” she asked.

“Oh, I was driving my good ol’ jeep in the depth of Dothraki sea, it was a savannah in Essos,” he explained when she furrowed her brows, “Then, somehow, though I was embarrassed to admit it, I got lost… I literally couldn’t find a way back to my camp. The sun was almost down, and I nearly had a breakdown when she came riding her horse.”

“Her… _what?”_

“Her horse. This black, huge, evil horse. And she rode it like it was a donkey. Anyway, she laughed at my stupidity and practically saved my ass from hypothermia and starvation. She was, to mildly put it, my knight on a black horse.”

This time it was Myrcella’s laugh that echoed in the kitchen. 

“Hey,” a voice came from the arched door behind her back, and she turned to see Robb was standing there, his hair a mop of disheveled auburn curls. “I heard your voice and wondered with whom you’re talking to...”

“Hey, Robb,” Gendry grinned, holding up the coffee pot. “Join us?”

“If Arya didn’t complain I got near you,”

Gendry’s face fell, “Uh, do I’ve to worry?”

Robb patted the other man’s shoulder, smiling as he cracked his knuckles. Gendry made a scared gesture that made her laugh out loud. 

“No worries, lad. As long as you make my little sister laugh like you made this woman.” Robb nodded to her direction. She shut her mouth, trying to suppress the heat that crept to her cheeks. For the first time she looked down and stared at the coffee mug between her hands.

The glazed used to be navy, but the paint faded over time to become a lighter, washed blue. It was dented at some angles, as she remembered she wanted to give the mug a texture. The effort was clearly a failure, as the mug turned out ugly. A small carving that is now almost invisible to unsuspecting eyes was still at the bottom of the mug handle, she noticed it with a skip of heartbeat.

 _Robbie_ — it’s still written there, with two smiley faces she had carved long time ago.

“You’re using my favorite cup,” Robb commented, bringing her back to the present.

“Oh, right, sorry,” she murmured. Gendry must have unknowingly taken the mug from the cupboard, and she also didn’t pay attention to what mug was given to her.

“That yours? Sorry I was the one who gave it to her,” Gendry chimed in, apologetic.

The ceramic was cold against her palms, the more she looked at it the more memories it brought. She made the mug in pottery class in seventh grade, and her teacher wanted them to make a mug to give their loved ones. That year she successfully persuaded her parents’ to allow her to transfer school to the North. Her friends were busy making mugs for their mothers, but Cersei was an emotionally distant mother, so she didn’t want to make her one. Some of them chose their fathers, but she knew Robert would only misplace the precious heartfelt gift, leaving it dusty in the garage, or worse, breaking her mug.

So she had chosen Robb as the receiver, sheepishly sculpted his name at the bottom of the mug’s handle. She was a stupid thirteen year-old girl, and Robb was already nineteen, taking a year off college for an internship at his father’s company.   
When she finally had the courage to give the ugly mug to him, his friends laughed at her. They were hanging out in his family’s backyard pool, him and his friends, she remembered, along with some girls of their age. Robb glared at his friends, saying something about them regretting the attitude when she grows up to be a beautiful woman.

 _Robbie_ — she had sculpted his name fondly, it felt rough now, years later, under the thumb as she rubbed the carving. It told a tale of a once hopeful little girl… That little girl grew up foolish, though, to her chagrin.

-

There was a distant memory she had tried to forget… of a man standing in a drenching rain, hair stuck to his forehead. He said something to her, but she really, _really and truly,_ wanted to forget. Perhaps she almost made the effort that now the memory came at her a blur. 

_“Wait for me,”_ he had told her, his breath a white fog in the dark. _“Wait for me.”_

She did wait for him… but for how long?

Waited to be heart broken all over again?

When in fact he never did come back, but to marry another woman?

 _“I’ll make it right, I promise,”_ he said.

_You never did._

_You never did._

  
  


_Never did._

  
  
  
  
  


_The girl that Robb brought home was the longest girlfriend to ever surpass a year with him,_ Sansa told her. 

_Who is she,_ Myrcella had pried for more informations, jealousy started to grow in her heart. She never liked Robb’s girlfriends; all tall and regal, with long sleek hair and killer legs. She was nothing, compared to them. Robb liked his girls tall, while she was short. Robb preferred brunettes, while she has golden hair that only makes her look pale and sickly. 

_A girl named Roslin,_ Sansa said, blind to her distress. _Mum likes her, and has been talking nonstop that she has good hips to bear children._

Myrcella decided that she did not like Roslin and her good hips.

That very Roslin now sat in front of her, just across the table, feeding Robb’s child applesauce and some kiwi. Down syndrome has affected little Ned’s facial muscles, causing his tongue to stick out and interfere with his ability to feed. Adding the fact that the little boy was more happy to play with his food, which only made his mother frustrated.

“Where’s Robb?” she asked Arya. “I haven’t seen him since morning.”

Arya sipped her coffee before supplying the answer, “He’s with Gendry. We’re about to go to Wolfswood after breakfast.”

“What? No!” Roslin looked mortified. “Who’ll look after Ned?”

“Uh, you are?” Arya gave her good-sister a confused look.

“During holidays and weekends, it is supposed to be your brother’s duty to look after his son.”

“I can help, if you’d like,” Myrcella offered, and Ned squealed as a spoonful of applesauce flew across the table. 

“And me. Why don’t you go with Robb and the boys for a hunting trip in the woods?” Mrs. Stark chimed in. “There are enough people here who can take turns looking after Ned.”

Roslin looked doubtful, but soon gave her consent. Birthday dinner will be served at 7 PM, and Mrs. Stark made it clear that the hunting party should be back at Winterfell by 5. If they brought enough game to be cleaned and put into the oven, it’d be even better. Everyone left with Mr. Stark, carrying shotguns, cramming inside his Range Rover and Robb’s Audi. They were wearing thick, bright orange vests and good pairs of thorn-proof breeches covering their front. They left at 10 in the morning, Roslin looked nervous and relieved at the same time as she hopped into the car.

Sansa took the first turn to watch little Ned, while Myrcella helped Mrs. Stark in the kitchen. Cleared from coffee mugs and breakfast, they were standing side by side in the huge kitchen which was Catelyn Stark’s favorite part of the house. The older woman had written down the birthday dinner menus, and she and Sansa salivating just to hear her explaining it.

First they worked with the ribs, dropping it into three pots of slow cookers (Catelyn was an avid cook who loves hosting). Chickens were washed and cut, then marinated in buttermilk, sumac, and pomegranate molasses. Myrcella remembered Catelyn’s famous meatballs, and she had been delighted that her favorite childhood food was among the menu. 

“My secret is tossing a combination of beef and pork with breadcrumbs,” Mrs. Stark told her as they worked together using small ice-cream scoops to make perfectly round meatballs. She watched Mrs. Stark scooped the minced meat in one hand, smoothing them out by gently rolling it in her hand. “A little salt and pepper, extra parsley, grated cheese, and smothered with cherry tomato sauce… I remembered it had always been Robb’s and your favorite.”

“It still is a comfort food,” she told her, who beamed up at her reply. “We haven’t found meatballs as good as the one you made.”

“Watch me make them this time, darling, and you’ll master it just fine. I also want to teach Roslin, but with Ned taking most of her attention, Robb will have to come home more often to enjoy this,” Mrs. Stark laughed, “Or you can just make them for him.”

With her family gathered to celebrate her husband’s birthday, and adding the fact that Arya _finally_ brought a decent guy home, Catelyn seemed determined to serve everyone’s favorite food. There will be Robb and her favorite spaghetti meatballs, Rickon and Eddard Stark’s favorite taco ribs, Bran’s roast chicken with roasted carrots, and big, fresh colorful salad (extra olives) for Roslin. The dessert would be a lemon birthday cake, which is Sansa’s favorite. Even Mrs. Stark made pumpkin soup to honor Gendry and to make him feel welcomed into the family, after asking Arya what his favorite comfort food was.

They were busy in the kitchen; washing, cutting, marinating, checking the oven and the sauces in pans, that soon it was her turn to watch Ned. Sansa waltzed into the kitchen, almost literally salivating from the smell coming through steaming pots.

“Oooh, mum, I missed your cooking!”

“That is because you rarely visit us now,” Mrs. Stark replied, rolling her eyes, the cloudless summer sky eyes that she passed to all her children, except Arya, who inherited her father’s look. “Where’s little Ned?”

“Already sleeping. Now it’s your turn, Myrcella. Leave that onion to me.” Myrcella took off her apron and tossed it to Sansa, who grinned wide as she passed. “I always wondered why dad never gained weight, geez.”

Myrcella excused herself from the kitchen. She went up the second floor, still remembering clearly where Robb’s childhood was located. His room looked the same as the last time she saw it, only his trophies had been stored away. Band and pin-up girls posters were also no longer decorated the walls, as it was now painted in the color of walnut yellow.

His son lay in the large bed, surrounded by a castle of cushions and pillows so as not to topple over. She looked around the room and did not see any baby cot. Apparently, they were practicing co-sleeping.

She went into the bathroom connecting in Robb’s bedroom to wash her face and hands. Beside the sink lay perfumes, a razor, two combs, and several bottles of cream. She picked one of the parfume, knowing it must be Robb’s, to inhale the scent. She was right. 

A sound from the bed made her rush to check on Ned, but he was just rolled to another side. For a moment she hesitated by the side of the bed, didn’t really know what to do, before proceeding to kneel and watch the toddler sleep. Ned’s hair, which was thick, the same color as his dad, covered his forehead just as the toddler was fast asleep. Myrcella brushed it to the side, staring at the boy’s chest weaving up and down. A heater was installed to keep little Ned comfortable.

She recalled the day he was born; the celebration the Starks threw, and how they decorated the house to welcome Ned from the hospital. Everyone adored the little baby, wrinkled and pink, born three weeks earlier than he was supposed to be. She remembered hugging Robb, congratulating him, a shy and nervous smile that never left his tired face. He’d be a good dad, and he has proven himself as one so far.

The sleeping toddler moved again in his sleep, whining, but his eyes still tightly shut. She had dreamt of having Robb’s babies, to love and to be loved back in return… but he just never came back like he promised.

\--

Meat was sizzling from their scorching pans, butter popped up, calling them to devour the food Catelyn Stark assembled on the dining table. Extra chairs were taken out to host all of them, a maid was moving among the guests, pouring champagne and wine (lemonade for Roslin and Rickon). It was customary in the Stark household to hold hands and give thanks before they enjoy the meal in front of them. Gendry was given the honor of saying grace that night, looking rather shy but clearly trying to give his best as he took Arya’s hand on his left, and Rickon’s hand on his right. 

“We thank you, dear Lord,” Gendry’s voice was shaking a bit, “For… for the hearty meal we’re going to… uh, dine… (Myrcella peeked and saw Bran’s shoulder shook, holding his laughter)... and, um, and happy birthday to Mr. Stark, as we’re having this feast to honor his nameday, prepared wonderfully by Mrs. Stark, and Sansa, and Myrcella… So... Uh, well, thank Lord, now we gonna eat, so… amen,”

 _“Amen,”_ their voices echoed in the dining hall, and Brandon finally got to laugh, to Catelyn’s dismay. Arya disposed of her brother’s laughter, who sat across the dining table, with a napkin. Little Ned made a gurgling sound of laughter, as his grandmother rolled her eyes at Arya and Bran’s manner, but beamed at the sudden hubbub around the table. Bowls of mashed potato were passed around; Rickon was still talking with his mouth full, Sansa explaining her next project to join King’s Landing Fashion Week to Roslin, and Mr. Stark leaned towards his eldest brood to speak something about work. 

She looked at Robb, who was listening intently to what his father was saying, the yellow glow from the chandelier above the table fell to his auburn curls, making it appear a shade darker. His face lit up to a sudden laugh to hear something Mr. Stark said, and Myrcella had to look away. The table felt crowded, literally and figuratively, the laughter and chatter around her made her want to close her ears. 

“How’s the meatballs?”

She turned to Mrs. Stark, who sat on her left, and smiled, “Still as good as I remembered!”

Robb glanced at them and smiled as he raised the meatball on his fork, giving a salute gesture. When their eyes met, his smile widened. The men bragged about the cottontail hunting earlier that day, with Robb and his father tallied at taking home seven game, each. They will skin the cottontails tomorrow and freeze it. Gifts were soon moving towards the head of the dining table where the Stark patriarch was sitting down, merrily donned a birthday hat Sansa made for him. Coffee and his birthday cake was taken out after the main course was completely wiped clean. 

“Please, don’t sing the birthday song,” he pleaded, but they were already clapping their hands, singing _happy birthday._ He laughed the entire song, as one by one came to him to hug and gave him a kiss. Mrs. Stark, obviously, received the longest, deepest kiss, and the table broke with whistles and even more noisy applause. They only stopped kissing when Arya held out her father’s ringing cell phone.

“Oh, it’s Lyanna!” Mr. Stark lit up to see the caller ID, and his sister’s voice was heard saying happy birthday in the speakerphone. Promises were made to meet the following week, when she visited Winterfell, before hanging up. 

“Is Jon coming as well?” Bran asked, curious.

Sansa laughed, “I don’t think he will, Bran, if Robb’s still here. Don’t you remember that time when Robb beat the shit out of him?”

Catelyn glared, “Watch your language, young lady.”

“It’s true,” Sansa protested, “That happened years ago, when I was in high school, I think. That was the only time I ever saw Robb so angry. You never told us what happened.”

All eyes fell on Robb, who had put down his fork. He shifted on his chair awkwardly. “Huh?”

“You beat up Jon?” Eddard Stark’s voice dropped dangerously. 

“That was years ago, Sansa said that happened in high school,” Catelyn put a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“When  _ Sansa  _ was in high school. That meant you and Jon were in college. What happened?”

“It was a misunderstanding. I even forgot what it was about! We’re cool about it now,” Robb finally found his voice, avoiding her eyes. “And we’re leaving the day after tomorrow, so Jon will come with Aunt Lyanna. We’re cool now, alright?”

“You beat your own cousin! Why Lyanna never mentioned this to me? And you?” he glared at his daughter, who regretted her action.

“Ned, darling,” Catelyn narrowed her eyes. “We’ve guests here, and as Robb told you, it happened when they were kids. Young men quarreled a lot, just like you and Robert.”

“Yeah, but I never beat Robert up,” Mr. Stark scoffed, still annoyed but decided to rest the case for now. “You and I will need to talk about this, young man. I don’t care if it happened years ago. You beat up your family. I don’t tolerate violence in our House.”

Robb shot his sister an annoyed look, before picking up Ned from his baby chair. “It’s time for Ned to sleep,” he told Roslin, who quickly got to her feet as well.

“Thank you for the meal, mum,” the woman said, and Myrcella winced at the title Robb’s wife used to call Mrs. Stark. “Happy birthday, dad,” one last kiss on Mr. Stark’s cheek, and they were gone from the dining room.

\---

It was past midnight when a knock was heard on her door. 

The knocking were loud, impatient, as if the one came knocking was not afraid someone might hear. It was Robb who stood in front of her room, wearing only a crumpled white t-shirt and grey boxer. He was always fared better in the cold, being born as a Northerner. She semi-consciously wrapped her bathrobe closer, as her nightgown was too thin to keep her warm outside the fur blanket.

“I remembered why I beat up Jon,” he confessed. “It was not a misunderstanding.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked, he was reeked of gin.

“Yes, I am,” he answered impatiently, taking a step closer into her room uninvited. “Usually it was you who’s drunk.”

She pushed him, offended, trying to keep him outside her door. “Get lost, Robb Stark. You don’t belong here...”

“No,” he whispered, as he caught her wrists, “Let me say it again; yes, I’m drunk. And you’re beautiful. I’ll be sober in the morning, and you’ll still beautiful.”

She did not know what to answer, so she just stared at him, waiting if he wanted to continue.

“I know what Jon did… to you.”

“What did he do?” she asked, confused.

“It was your senior prom, wasn’t it?” he asked her back, now sounding irritated. “I thought you were dating that guy from your algebra class.”

“We broke up. Jon was a last minute replacement.”

“Why didn't you ask me?”

“What?” Now she was dumbfounded. 

“I already took you to your junior prom as a replacement. Why didn't you ask me again for your senior prom?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“You slept with Jon,” his tone accused.

 _And you got Roslin pregnant._ “So?”

“So I beat him up.”

Silence. The grip on her wrists started to hurt, making her try to squirm free. When instead he pushed himself into her room, she frantically tried in vain to prevent him from entering. The door swung shut behind Robb’s back.

“You were a kid!” 

“I was seventeen!”

“He’s my cousin!”

“So it’d be fine for you if I picked another man? Domeric Bolton from Accounting, perhaps?”

“No!”

“I’m not yours!” The memory came at her again, more hurting than ever, he was standing in the drenching rain, _“Wait for me,”_ he said… didn’t he?

“You’re like a sister to me.” 

_Is that the truth you whispered to yourself?_ “Should I list all the men I’ve slept with, so you can beat them up, _brother?”_

She whimpered when he almost slammed her to the wall, palm hitting the wall, inches from her face, trapping her…

 _“Don’t,”_ he warned. 

“Why? Jealous?”

“It’d make you like a slut,”

Her hand lashed out to his cheek. Robb just stood still, taking the blow. HIs head was not even pushed aside, not even when she had hit him with all her might. The hand that hit him throbbed painfully.

“Get out of my room,” she hissed.

“Last time I remembered, you threw yourself to me.”

Another slap.

Their breath hitched, his the smell of gin. 

“Do you want to know something, Robb?” she whispered, rage threatened to burst out of her chest. “I was a virgin when I slept with Jon.”

It was as if a button was switched off instantly; he slumped towards her, making a sound like he wanted to scream, his hands wrapped around her neck, warm and hot, burning… There was hollowness from his eyes when they stared at each other in the dim room. Anger drained from her body, replaced by fear and regret when he finally retreated. There was a void in her as soon as his hands, and his warmth, leaving her.

“Then I no longer need to regret ever breaking his goddamn nose.”

He stood there, shaking, and her heart was beating so fast—too fast—she was afraid it might give her a heart attack.

“But it was your name I screamed as he made me cum.”

Her confession surprised him—or so she thought. The contort of his face was like he was trying to remember how to breathe, or how to speak.

“So, I guess that was why he didn’t hit me back…” he let out a shaky breath, rubbing his face. 

The sound of a door opening followed by footsteps from outside her room made both of them jump. Soon there was the sound of toilet flushing, the water faucet turning, and a door closing.

He was pulling her for an embrace when the footsteps no longer heard. In the darkness, his arms around her felt like heaven; warm, cozy… and oddly, safe. 

“I want you,” he whimpered, “I always, always, want you,”

“Liar,” _You told me to wait, but you never come… you never come._ “Robbie,” her calling his childhood name made him sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I…” He never finished. His lips found hers, soft at first, reluctant, hesitant… but soon gained confidence as her fingers slipped between his curls, a silent permission to deepen the kiss. She could taste the gin on his lips, piney and biting, even more when his tongue explored her mouth.

It was the long, much awaited kiss she had dreamt of since she realised she was in love with Robb Stark. Butterflies, and something else, flutters dangerously in her stomach and between the legs. The bathrobe fell from her shoulders, cold weather of the North teased the skin beneath the thin nightgown. She shivered, and Robb drew her body closer to him. He yanked her hips bumping to him, she could feel his excitement, hard, protruding under the boxer. His hands trailed on both sides of her body to stop and knead on the buttcheeks, all the while he never stopped kissing her.

She, too, did not want the kiss to end.

His hands went up to her breasts, massaging from behind the fabric, the lace sewn on the silk rubbed deliciously through Robb’s hands. A moan slipped from her lips as she grinds on his hardness, seeking more friction. Reading her mind, one hand left her breast, creeping slowly between her legs, and slipping into her panties. His lips, his tongue, trailing her jaw down to her neck and the collar bone. It didn’t help much, the feelings started to overwhelm her. 

_“Fuck,”_ he muttered weakly, feeling her wetness at the tip of his fingers.

The way he circled that one spot between her legs made her head fall back against the wall, moaning. She had craved for him, dreaming of him, and now he watched her intently as she came on his fingers. 

He caught her before she could fall to the floor, pinned her against the cold wall, legs wrapped around his waist. One of her nightgown’s straps slipped down, exposing her breast, and he didn’t waste a second to take the nipple to his mouth, sucking, kissing… 

“Take me,” she whimpered, pleading, “Please just take me…”

She felt her soaked panties leaving her thighs, and disappeared somewhere in the dark room. His boxer dropped, he lifted her higher before dropping her to him, penetrating her raw. Their breath becomes one, just like their bodies, as he thrust into her, groaning, murmuring incoherent words. 

He was so thick inside her, filling her completely. It was like a dream. She let her fingers trailed from his hair to his face, running a finger over his face, the blue eyes were half closed. They fluttered open once her thumb brushed his lips. The room started to feel warmer; the smell of sex was unmisataken. 

He thrust in her faster, deeper, the air filled with their suppressed moans as she held onto him. He was so strong that he was able to support her weight while her legs curled around his waist, the ankles locked to keep him inside of her. The wall behind her back helped to provide some support as he kept pounding into her. 

She moaned a bit louder, but his mouth silenced her. 

In the middle of it all she realized how morally wrong it was; her brother was sleeping in the room next to her, Gendry’s room was across hers and it could be him that came out to use the bathroom earlier. Roslin and Robb’s child were in the bedroom no more than twenty meters from where they made love. The thought to stop came at her, yet it felt so good… _so good,_ and she had wanted _this._

And from the way he thrust into her, kissing her so passionately that both of them ran out of breath, tore down his own words that he only thought of her like a sister.

The familiar tingle returned again. He was completely slick with their lovemaking secretions when he pulled from her only to thrust with more urgency than before. She had to hold on to Robb’s sturdy shoulders, gripping at his t-shirt, biting her own lips so that she wouldn't scream when she cum on his cock for the second time. 

“Myrcella,” he groaned, his fingers dug into her buttcheeks, keeping her shaking body still, as his body stiffened and a warm gush filled her up. 

This time she whispered his name again, and again, and again, for real, like a chant to his ear.


	5. Genesis 3:3

**_"The God say, 'You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die'."_ **

* * *

The bed was empty when she woke up.

His smell lingered between the sheets, on her skin, the taste of him stayed in her mouth. The memory from last night flooded over her like a broken dam; the guilt, the grief, the relief… He was gentle when he carried her to bed, where they lay facing one another, their bodies refusing to part. She was drowsy but refusing to give in to sleep, afraid of losing time with him. He spent hours just holding her close, and she to him, without words, but the way his fingers caressed her spoke millions. Purple and gold slipping through the curtain whispering a new day has come and it was time for him to go. He finally peeled himself from her embrace. She cried herself to sleep as he slipped away before the sun was fully risen in the sky.

The house was already bustling with activities when she emerged from her room, for a heartbeat fearing someone would know what they were doing last night. Though she sensed nothing changed from the Starks’ faces, nor from Roslin or Gendry, she refused the maid to clean her room. She pulled her sheets and the nightgown she wore last night, taking them herself to the laundry room, afraid that anyone would find out their secrets. She could still smell Robb’s scent from the garments, and the smell of their lovemaking, as she stuffed the linen and nightgown into the washing machine. 

The Stark’s laundry room was located at the farthest end of the house, at the back near the storage room. It gave her some tranquility and the peace she needed, being away from the commotion. Equipped with automatic washing machines (three were installed), two clothes dryers, and ironing board, yet the room didn’t feel stuffy. A large window leads to the backyard, a maid had left it open so the air inside was cool and dry.

She sat on a small stool placed in front of the washing machine, watching the circular washing movement through the machine’s transparent window. It was kind of therapeutic.

“You can let the maid do it.”

She jumped and turned to see Roslin was standing behind her with a basket of little Ned’s clothes.

“It’s alright, only take a second to put the sheets in the machine.” Myrcella replied, couldn’t look Robb’s wife in the eye. She busied herself with a box of detergent. Her fingers trembled slightly. Roslin put the basket on the iron table and started to sort the colors, separating whites from the rest of the colors. 

“You won’t believe how many clothes a toddler can wear in a day,” she heard Roslin chuckled behind her. “I’ve never washed something so many and so often in my life.”

“Yeah?” her voice sounded like a banshee; high pitched and nervous. She could feel the pulse pounding in her temples mercilessly.

“What happened to your sheets?” Roslin asked nonchalantly, still sorting Ned’s clothes.

“I… I spilled tea on it.”

“Ah, easy, it won’t leave any ugly stain.”

“Yeah. Hope so.” Myrcella stood up and put the detergent box atop of the washing machine. “I’ll leave the detergent here.”

“Thank you,” Roslin glanced at her as she prepared to leave. “Arya was so wild.”

“I beg your pardon?” she turned to Roslin again, as the woman giggled.

“I was looking for Robb last night. Guess what I heard coming from Gendry’s hallway?”

“What?” she swore she could feel blood drained from her face. 

“I think someone’s having so much fun,” Roslin laughed, “I myself had to turn around and practically ran before I entered the guests’ room hallway! I thought I heard mum tell Arya not to visit Gendry in the night, if you know what I meant. But, of course, Robb’s little sister was too wild to even consider it.” she shook her head, still chuckling.

“Please don’t speak of this to anyone.” Myrcella pleaded, feeling her knees went weak.

Roslin’s eyes widened, “No, of course not! I won’t put Arya in trouble! Nor Gendry!”

“Thank you,” she offered weakly, head throbbing in shame to wonder if her brother or Gendry heard what happened last night, worse if they realized it came from her room. “I shall be going now…”

She turned her heel towards the door when a tall figure went into the room. 

“Did you see my—Oh!” Robb stopped abruptly and Myrcella bumped to his chest.

He was just showered; soap and his cologne hit her like a brick, and she was not ready to face him.It was too much after facing his wife. Dipping her head, she walked passed him silently, feeling his stare burning her back.

-

When she was just six, Robert took his family to Winterfell for the first time. Cersei was whining the whole trip; _the weather was too cold, their food was too salty, the atmosphere was too quiet, Catelyn Stark talked too much…_ Robert almost lost it and never expected her to come back with him in following years. But neither did Cersei, who preferred and thrived in warmer weather of the south.

Joffrey was ten, already violent and full of anger. She was a shy and a rather awkward girl, always feeling painfully out of place, teased by her peers at school and tormented at home by Joff. Her mother’s golden boy never seemed wrong in Cersei’s eyes and Robert was always blind to her distress. 

Being in Winterfell was a huge relief to get away from the three of them (though she could tolerate Robert’s antics better, since he largely left her alone). She liked to sneak to the Wolfswood not far from the Stark’s estate, wondering how far she could venture into the forest before running towards Winterfell again. A small stream divided the edge of the woods with a plot of land overgrown with wild berries and tall grass. A family of cottontails lived under a dead tree trunk, and she fed them breadcrumbs and cookies. While in Winterfell, Robert spent most of his time with his best friend, Mr. Stark, and both men enjoyed going for a hunt or hiking, leaving Cersei locked herself in her room. 

That year the Starks’ had three children; Robb, the eldest, followed by Sansa who’s at the same age as her, and Arya, still a babe. Cersei was relieved as Catelyn was busy with Arya. She used the excuse of hating cold weather to stay inside the guest’s bedroom, never far from a bottle of wine, as Robert went with Eddard Stark. 

Robb and Sansa were popular; even during holiday breaks they always have friends coming over, making Myrcella a bit nervous. Yet both were raised humbled and gracious. Sansa introduced Myrcella to her friends, who were no less beautiful, popular girls in their private school in the North. Robb, being in the brink of teenagehood, was always outside the house to play with his friends. It was later when she found out he was actually as shy as her, preferring his fictions even when he’s got talent in sports.

The Stark estate was surrounded by woods, the one they called Wolfswood. A visitor would need to drive deeper through a cobblestone driveway, passing the last house in the same area, until the grey manor loomed in the distance. She recalls it was during their second week in Winterfell when she, again, found solace in the Wolfwood, away from the crowd, away from her family, and most importantly away from Joffrey. 

_“I’m larger than you,” Robb’s eyes narrowed, assessing the boy and his temper before him._

_“I have the knife,” Joffrey mocked. “You’ve nothing.”_

_“I have my fists and I can knock you down easily, you little shit. Wanna try?”_

_She was too shaken to remember thanking him for his help and the much needed intervention. Taking Robb’s outstretched hand, he helped her up, puffing her skirt and legs from dirt and dust._

_“I’ve a sister,” he said, like she hadn’t known already, “She’s quite popular, and I’ve given warnings to annoying boys like your brother. No offense.” Robb fetched her shoe from the ground, tapping on its side to dust off the dirt. He knelt, and she nervously put a hand on his shoulder as he lifted her foot to slip the shoe back. “Are you hurt?”_

_She shook her head._

_“Do you want to come back? Or do you need a little time?”_

_She was confused and touched at the same time._

_“Perhaps in a little while.”_

_“I’ll wait there,” he pointed at a large oak tree by the stream. “Just howler when you’re ready to leave, okay?”_

_“Okay,”_

_As soon as his back was on her, she hurriedly tidied up her disheveled hair. Her clothes and skirt were dirty when she fell, and the stockings were slightly torn. She’d need to explain to Cersei later… but for now she sat on a rock, trying to catch her breath, still surprised by Robb’s sudden help. She was even more surprised by his gentle treatment, making her want to lie down under a blanket and cry._

_The woods were silent when they walked side by side towards Winterfell._

_“Why was it named Wolfswood?” she asked him shyly, “Are there wolves in here?”_

_“Aye, and you shouldn’t go by yourself. Dad said we haven’t seen one in decades, though, only cottontails, deers, and some squirrels.”_

_“Aren’t you afraid?”_

_“Of what?”_

_“If you meet any wolf.”_

_He grinned, “No. Are you?”_

_“I’d be.”_

_“I’m here. We can run together.”_

_“The wolves will outrun us.”_

_“Well, that’d be bad.”_

_Her face fell, and it was Robb’s turn to laugh. He took her hand in his, guiding her through the woods. “No need to worry, Myrcella. I was only joking. There’s no wolf any longer here.”_

The woods were full of their childhood memories; of Robb’s laughter and hers, of Robb’s witty banter, and of her hidden feelings… When she lived in the North, it became her secret place to sit for hours, listening to her Walkman or just lying on the hard ground, looking up at the sun above... She wondered what happened to that special place she had not visited in years; the one with an old, ridged, knobby looking oak tree where Robb found her and Joffrey that day. Its branches were like tentacles, groping its surroundings menacingly, or possessively, depending on how one looked at it. Dead dry acorns must have adorned its legs now. 

The nearest bus stop was at the end of the long cobblestones driveway. The soles of her boots made soft thumping sounds as they padded against the grey stones, arranged like an overlay of puzzle beneath her feet. Out of habit, she counted how many stones she had passed until she reached the bus stop. This time, she counted up to seven hundred thirty-nine. The amount was never the same; sometimes, she started counting when she was already halfway. Other times, she walked fast with long, jumping steps that she was out of breath, and forgot the count, but it was no longer than forty hundred something.

The city air was fresh and cold, the way a northern region should be, that their busses open its windows and only turn on the air-con when it is raining. She breathed the old familiar smell from her childhood as her bus waltzed downtown—folks went about their way, stores and cafes packed with patrons, families walking in pavements, lovers kissing at the side of the street, newspaper and shopping bags in hands…

She looked away from her window, staring at her hands. To her the city remained the same, no matter how years came and went, as does her feelings. The bus passed an ice cream parlor where Robb used to buy her, Sansa, and Arya ice creams. It was almost lunch time, and children chattering cheerfully in front of the display window.

 _“One chocolate peanut butter, one mocha lemon bar, and one snow paws.”_ She smiled to herself as Robb’s voice ringed in her ears. 

The bus drove through the town, past places she had left the scatter of her heart; the places she felt safe and happy. Soon she knew the ride would reach its farthest destination and she had to hop off. This one ride took her to the outskirts of the town, across the Stark estate, where it final destination was in front of a church. She was the last passenger to get off the bus, wind blowing hard on her hair. She forgot how merciless the north wind could be. 

Her surroundings were quiet, silent houses and empty cars parked by the sideways. She turned to seek shelter by the church’s porch as the wind started to pick up. At her impulsive thought to go downtown, just to get out of the Starks’ manor, she had forgotten to wear gloves. 

Looking at her wrist watch, it was already lunch time. She had slipped away without telling anyone, the guilt eating her chest was too much to look at them in the eye. She imagined the Starks’ dining table filled with hot food, her beloved ones sitting around the table. Perhaps this time it’d be Tommen’s turn to say grace.

“Come inside, it’d be warmer, child,”

She looked over her shoulder to find the heavy doors broke open, a man in cassock smiling at her.

“No, thank you, I’ll leave in a minute,” she replied, nodding politely at his invitation.

“What brings you to this part of town?” To her expiration, the man chose to stand with her on the porch. 

“I just took the first bus that stopped in Winterfell.”

“Oh, you’re visiting the Starks?”

She nodded again politely, forming an excuse to walk away from the church and the extra friendly priest. The wind came at them, and both shivered in the cold. He smiled, and once again invited her to come inside. This time she relented, hoping in a few minutes the weather would be friendlier for her to leave. It was indeed warmer inside. Weak sunlight shone through the stained glass windows depicted Jesus’ crucifixion, casting an eerie glow upon rows of empty pews.

“I can fetch you some tea, if you’d like.”

“No… please, don’t bother. I’ll leave in a minute.” She reluctantly sat in one of the pews, still feeling unsure why she followed him into the church. She was never a religious person, unlike Eddard and Catelyn Stark, and if not for them she’d never set foot in a place like this.

The priest came with two cups of tea, nonetheless, which she begrudgingly took. 

“Did you come for Mr. Stark’s birthday?”

“I am. Eddard Stark was my father’s best friend. The Starks fostered me when I studied here, and on Sundays they used to take me here.”

“That was wonderful, child. My predecessor had known the Stark children since they were just kids, but I had only recently been assigned here. He must have known you too.”

The cup shook a little on her grasp, as uninvited memories came at her. Robb, in his best Sunday shirt, smiling mischievously from a pew. Robb, yawning as the priest preached about something she had long forgotten. Robb, considering to join the choir (he did not). Robb, reading a novel instead of the bible in the middle of worship, and Catelyn smacked his hand. 

“I’ve to go.” she put down the teacup and stood, followed by the priest.

“Is something bothering you?” his question startled her, but she shook her head. “If you need anything, you can find it here, by the grace of God. Seek, and it shall be given to you, child.”

 _I’ve sought long enough, and it still hasn't been given to me._ “Thank you, Father.”

“I’ll pray for you, child.”

“Thank you for your kindness.”

“We all need a little kindness, don’t we?”

A polite smile and another thank you, before she was running to the door. The city and everything in it was full of Robb. She had difficulties breathing. The wind was friendlier now, and she got on the bus that took her back to the middle of the city. She wandered for hours between shopping arcades, not really knowing what to look nor where to go. Her crotch could still feel Robb there, lips claiming her mouth, and for a moment she forgot everything; the fact that he’s married, and that this was an unhealthy obsession for her…

It was past afternoon when she walked up the cobblestone again, a cup of sundae in her hand. The air gets colder as the sun begins sliding down between grey clouds. A tall figure was standing in the middle of the cobblestone road, waiting. His breath became fog in front of his mouth as he ran up to her.

“Where the hell have you been?” he almost shouted, “You were gone the whole day! Mum and Dad are worried, and so do I! Why didn't you pick up the phone?”

“I didn’t bring my phone with me.”

“What the hell?”

“Stop shouting. You’re not my brother.”

“I’m not,” he admitted angrily, “Your brother is in prison for manslaughter.”

Robb stood there, glaring, as she calmly scooped herself another spoonful of ice cream.

“Snow paws.” he said suddenly, looking at the sundae cup in her hand. “Your favorite.”

She kept her eyes on the cobblestone, lips cold from the vanilla ice cream. He reached out to put a finger at the corner of her mouth, wiping off a drop of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. 

“I see you’re still a messy ice cream eater.”

“It melted too fast…” she began, but he was faster.

“...like you’re drinking milk instead of ice cream.” he finished her sentence. “I remembered that protest of yours.”

The finger went to his mouth, and she stared how he licked the syrup off. The same finger that went between her legs last night, drenched in her juices. She looked away again before her face betrayed anything. 

“Where have you been?” he asked again, this time softly. 

“Strolling around town. Treating myself snow paws.”

“You should let us know you were going... You should let me know,”

“What do you want now? An apology?” she didn’t mean to grumble, but she did.

“I want to talk about last night,” he kept his voice low, although she sensed him starting to get annoyed all over again. She winced at that; not ready to face nor talk about the topic.

“Which part?” she muttered, feeling the heat crept to her cheeks.

“I—,” he began, but struggled for words. “I, I just want to say that you don’t have to worry… of getting pregnant… or whatsoever,” he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Why’d you say that?” 

“I don’t want any more children,” he said, “I want to take care of Ned, but I don’t trust my wife. She doesn't want me to wear condoms and I don’t believe her taking the pills. So I got myself a vasectomy without telling her.”

That surprised her, “Okay…” she replied slowly, still processing what he said.

“So, uh,” he stood awkwardly, looking wounded, and she sensed his anxiety building. “Well, I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry. And that—that I’m sorry… it happened.”

This time his words hurt her, “Did you regret it?”

He looked up to her, an expression of turmoil and sadness, “No,” he whispered. “Though I know I should. It was wrong. So wrong...” he stopped to catch a breath, looking as if he didn’t want to say anything further.

She knew what he wanted to say even before hearing it herself. “We’ll never talk about this again. We’ll forget about what happened last night.” 

_Isn’t that what you want to say? To hear? To confirm?_

“Myrcella—,”

She threw the empty sundae cup to Robb, startling him. The cup rolled down on the cobblestone. Not saying anything, she turned her heel and started to run for the woods. Guilt, anger, and sadness felt tight in her chest; she needed a safe place to be alone. To cry. To scream. She needed to get away from him. Whatever he wanted to say, she didn’t want to hear it.

Why would she care? 

Because she loved him, and she wanted him, that’s why.

The fact that he made her feel wanted, then unwanted, hurt her even more.

His steps echoed from the cobblestones, following her off the track and into the woods. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, sploshing cold water as she crossed the small shallow stream dividing the Stark’s estate from the Wolfswood. The air was heavy and cold, piercing her lungs as she tried to breathe.

Robb was strong and the better athlete; in no time he’d soon catch up to her. Her breath was wheezing as she crossed the stream, legs started to feel numb. Behind her, his footsteps sounded steady with no hint of slowing down as he sprinted forward, almost lurching onto her.

“Stop running!” 

Her subconsciousness brought her to that oak tree, the one with knobby looking tentacles branches. _Her_ tree. 

“Don’t follow me!”

“I’m not following you!” he snatched her arm, yanking it stubbornly that she almost fell to the ground. “But it’ll be dark soon, you have to go back!”

“Leave me alone,” she started to cry, trying hopelessly to keep the pain and all the jealousy at bay. All she wanted was a time alone to drown in her misery without anyone to hear her. “Please,”

“No,” his grip at her arm only tightened, and she whimpered. 

“I said, let go!”

She tried to push him but instead he pulled her into his embrace.

_“Never,”_

Tears spilled down her face now, chin trembled like she was a child again when Robb was mad at her. Even until this time, having a fight or just seeing him upset soured her mood. He held her close, arms flung around her shoulders as she buried her face to his chest.

The smell of musky earth sneaked through the pine woods. It was cold, but the body pressed to hers was warm. Her grip on his jacket exposing his neck, and she inhaled the scent on his naked skin, tasting the alluring smell. She ran her fingers up, slipping through his hair, and he lifted her chin to plant a kiss—the long, poignant kiss—on her lips. She was sure he could taste the sweet vanilla and chocolate from her tongue, carefully exploring her mouth. 

Unlike the other night where his kisses were primal and more urgent, this time he took the time to really _kiss_ her, soft, slow, considerate… just like a lover would. She could almost taste love at the tip of his tongue. The way their body mingled, his hands cupped her face, and her arms down his spine… She had to break off the kiss before she lost herself in it.

He tightened his embrace, still not letting go, warm breath fell upon her face.

“There’s so many regrets in my life,” he breathed out, sorrowful. “For not kissing you earlier, nor telling you that I want you… I let you wait too long. I wish I could fix it, I wish—,” a pause, as Robb’s forehead pressed to hers, “I wish things were different.”

Even between layers of clothes she could hear his heartbeat; strong, thumping loudly behind the rib cage. Myrcella looked up at the man before her. When he stared at her, his eyes were as dreamy as she always remembered. _This is the moment you’ve to stop,_ a voice whispered. 

She stood on her toes, cold wind blowing and she shivered under the jacket. 

“Kiss me,” her voice trembled, hoarse, full of want. _“Please.”_

_Pray for my soul, Father, for I’ve sinned._

  
  


The more they got near to Winterfell, she could feel him slowing down. Lights began to appear in front of them, soon the chatter and commotion from inside the house followed suit. Robb’s thumb rubbed her knuckles, before the hand that was holding hers all the way from the woods slowly losing his grip. He pulled away just before Mr. Stark and Tommen went out from the door, behind them Sansa and Rickon and Bran and Arya, even Gendry… and Roslin. 

It felt as if she had just woken up from a dream; Mrs. Stark and Sansa helped her into the house, fussing about her hair and scolded her for leaving the house all day without telling them where. For a heartbeat she was afraid someone might know what she had just done, but they were just concerned. 

“We’re so worried!” she heard Catelyn Stark said, as she put a blanket around her shoulder. “Darling, you’re shaking. Where have you been without telling us?”

She was ushered into the house, seated in front of the burning fireplace as her hands began to feel stiff and cold. Arya brought her hot cocoa, and Sansa sat next to her. She faintly told them about how she intended to take a short walk downtown, but forgot the time and she didn’t bring her cellphone. The Starks gather around the fireplace, buying the story she gave them, as they reminisce about the past.

Robb watched them silently from afar. She glanced up just when Roslin took Robb’s hand in hers, taking her husband out of sight.

 _I am your little dirty secret,_ she thought, an invisible cold hand gripped her heart viciously. _I am your old, worn shoes. Comfortable to wear, but not to be shown in front of a crowd. I only deserve you in the dark, stealing time when people are not looking; and between it I could only dream of you._


End file.
